


Shell Games

by Make_It_Worse



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe - Mob, Bruises, Claiming, Enemies to Lovers, Fondling, Hickeys, M/M, Neck Kissing, Power Play, Rivals, Scheming, Subterfuge, Uneasy Allies, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:46:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24263809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: “Where are we going?” Connor attempts to affect a bored tone, but tension digs its talons into his guts. He knows who ordered this—Hitblares like a warning in the back of his mind, but he pushes it away. If Anderson wanted him dead, he wouldn’t still be among the living. No, Anderson had taken pains to make this a relatively clean, silent extraction. He shudders, not letting his mind follow that thread of thought. Anderson’s known to play with his food before biting into it. Connor can practically feel teeth on his jugular.--Two rival mob bosses vying for the throne over their trash heap of a festering city.I wrote this, according to the time stamp, back inNovemberof2018. I'm not sure why I never posted it *shrug*. It's a little rough as I hadn't written fiction in years at that point, but it's still fun.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 18
Kudos: 139





	Shell Games

A coppery burn simmers across Connor’s tongue as he bites back a cutting remark. His captors are sloppy but brutal. The vicious backhand he’d received when he voiced his irritation with his abduction proved that swiftly enough. He needs to piss and his clothes are unacceptably rumpled. These guys are clearly just the muscle behind the operation. It had taken brains to pirouette around his considerable security force.

“Where are we going?” Connor attempts to affect a bored tone, but tension digs its talons into his guts. He knows who ordered this—

 _Hit_ blares like a warning in the back of his mind, but he pushes it away. If Anderson wanted him dead, he wouldn’t still be among the living. No, Anderson had taken pains to make this a relatively clean, silent extraction. He shudders, not letting his mind follow that thread of thought. Anderson’s known to play with his food before biting into it. Connor can practically feel teeth on his jugular.

The dark man with even darker eyes who seems to be the lead tough spares him a withering glance but says nothing. Connor can’t be sure, but he doesn’t think this is the one who struck him. If this giant hit him, he’d probably be out cold for a week.

Rain begins to pelt the window in a futile effort to strike Connor’s face. He leans his cheek against the cool glass and it takes away the worst of the sting. His lips are already puffing up at the corner as if he’s experiencing an allergic reaction to pain and he grimaces when they brush the cold surface of the window. Call him vain, but he doubts anyone would fancy having a lopsided face.

He has to gnash at his tongue to hide his grin when a lumbering brute pulls his door wide. He hadn’t survived this long in the criminal underworld by sitting around and waiting for events to unfold. The guard wasn’t expecting Connor to slip his cuffs or deliver a sharp blow to his windpipe. The heavy man hits the concrete with a whump like a bag of soaked flour and Connor makes a mad, frantic dash for freedom.

Thick fingers hook him by the suspenders, yanking him back hard.

“Not so fast, little man,” the dark colossus rumbles. A laugh lurks somewhere in his words and Connor’s cheeks glow like embers. It had been a childish, desperate move but like hell is he going to play captive quietly.

He writhes like a ferret, attempting to twist himself free of the man’s grip. Fists tighten painfully around his biceps, but Connor doubles down on his struggles. He screams for help when his captor begins to frog march him toward the bland glass doors that hide the main penthouse of Hank Anderson’s domain.

A hand clamps over his throbbing mouth and a deep voice hisses in his ear, “Do not make me box your head. Mr. Anderson prefers that you’re awake for this meeting.”

 _Meeting_ , Connor sneers in his head and partially through the fingers silencing him. If anyone on the streets noticed anything odd, Connor doubts they’ll come to his aide. Anderson’s reputation preceded him by a mile and people gave him an even wider berth.

“Luther,” a thug with a sallow complexion and stupid face calls to the man steering Connor like he weighs no more than a toy car. Both Connor and Luther jerk their attention to him and Connor’s eyes zero in on his hand. It’s sporting a neat row of teeth and Connor memorizes his face. This was the one who’d struck him. He’d earned a vicious bite from Connor in response. Connor hopes it festers painfully and scars worse.

“ _No names_ ,” Luther hisses but the damage is done.

“Luther,” Connor purrs the name, dragging out the ‘r’. “That’s a name to remember for when I get the hell out of this dingy place.”

Luther’s eyes dart from Connor to the lumbering hired muscle before his issues a curt order, “Lockdown the perimeter. Let the boss know we secured the Songbird.” He adjusts his grip around Connor’s wrists and hustles Connor through a side door, forcing him up a flight of stairs in bleak silence.

“Luther,” the man repeats on a wheeze, clearly not valuing his job or his life. “Anderson only paid for two hours. We’re well on our way to a third.”

Connor can’t help but admire how swiftly Luther deals with the whining heavyweight. One moment, he’s standing there breathing too raggedly for a man who only ascended two floors, and the next he’s crumpling backward with a perfect circle in his forehead. Even with the silencer, Connor’s ears ring at the proximity of the shot.

He wasn’t squeamish around death. He couldn’t be given his place as the head of the Stern syndicate, but still. It had been a while since he’d had to dirty his hands himself much less watch the aftermath. So much for rotting bite wounds. Connor doubts the first hints of infection had even set in yet. The man’s body oozes down a few more stairs before Luther shoves Connor back into motion.

The higher they climb, the more details start to jump out at Connor. The handrails transition from metal to basic wood to smooth, high-end oak. The stair treads follow suit and Connor’s heart pounds as he realizes they are rapidly approaching the pearl of Anderson’s oyster. Once the doors hinge shut, he doubts he will ever emerge as a free man again.

He makes one last, wild bid for escape when Luther has to release one of his arms in order to press his palm to a bio-scanner. He knows it’s likely futile, but it doesn’t stop him from trying to swan dive over the railing. His feet haven’t even left the ground when Luther hooks an arm around his waist.

“Not that easy, my diminutive friend,” the chuckle is undeniable this time and Connor head butts the man out of spite.

It does nothing to douse the big man’s mirth, “You’ll need that fire to survive.”

Survival. It has come down to that, hasn’t it? He doesn’t dwell on what survival as Anderson’s captive would look like. He doesn’t have time for it as pristine, windowless doors spread wide before him to reveal immaculate, rich wood floors. The planks and grain all point to one single focal point—a large, comfortable chair with an even grander man seated in it.

Long, powerful fingers drum against the arm of the wingback, tufted chair. Numerous rings glint on his knuckles in the muted light, all murderous red in color. The mahogany leather gleams, but the sheen is dull compared to the hungry glow behind Anderson’s eyes when they land on his quarry.

“Mr. Stern,” his voice is deep and powerful. Connor has to suppress a shiver at being directly addressed by such a powerful man. He almost forgets he cradles an empire himself between stained fingers.

Anderson lifts his chin at Luther and Connor finds himself reeling forward as a palm thrusts into his lower back. He does his best to catch himself and stand with dignity. The longer Anderson stares at him, the more his anxiety gnaws at his edges.

He wants his counterpart to do something, to act, to issue an order—anything to end this horrible silence filled with uncertainty.

Finally, mercifully, Anderson makes a gesture with his hand that is equal parts appreciative and dismissive, “That will be all for tonight. Lock us down. I don’t intend to leave until well after morning.”

Something in his tone roots Connor to the spot as if he can escape the hunter’s notice by remaining frozen. Luther departs with a slight bow and Connor’s eyes shiver shut when several locks slide into place. He’s well and truly alone with his greatest rival. No one is coming for him, of that he’s certain.

His mother had made it clear she saw him unfit to succeed her. She’d even attempted her own coup of sorts by naming Niles as her successor. It had blown up royally in her face when Niles slipped away into obscurity with Connor’s help.

It had been fun at first, ruling an illicit empire.

But skeletons had come rattling and moaning out of Amanda’s closets to take up residence in Connor’s boudoir. He hadn’t known a night’s peace since he learned how precarious their hold was on their investments.

“Hank Fucking Anderson,” Amanda had spit frailly from her bed. A nurse with no name and no history tucked Amanda’s ailing frame more securely into her blankets without comment. Connor stared straight through her, not wanting to speak ill of the soon-to-be deceased directly to her face. Amanda had made mistakes, insurmountable mistakes, that made their empire’s continued existence near impossible.

Now, here Connor stands. Captured and with limited resources in the enemy’s clutches.

Anderson rises like a dark, sensual dream from his seat, prowling around Connor in a wide circle, taking him in. He stops directly in front of him, gripping Connor delicately by the chin like a man who means to pin a butterfly to a table.

“What happened to your face?” Anderson appraises Connor as if he just discovered a flaw in an otherwise perfect diamond.

“I’ve had worse. Your men were sloppy,” Connor answers haughtily and Anderson drops his hand in favor of walking another tighter circle around his captive. When he comes to a halt in front of Connor’s rigid form, he’s close enough for Connor to count his eyelashes.

Anderson’s hand moves as if to touch the injury before clenching into a fist, “I said I wanted a _clean_ extraction.”

“I’ve had worse,” Connor repeats, softer this time.

Anderson scowls, “My orders were explicit. _No marks_. Who was it?”

Connor’s eyes dart around, shrewd and calculating. He leans into Anderson’s space until he can feel the man’s breath on his face, “He’s currently decomposing on a flight of stairs.”

Anderson huffs dangerously, dragging Connor into his lap as he sinks into the leather seat, “Saves me the trouble of killing him.” His grip on Connor’s waist demands compliance and Connor sits rigidly with wary eyes on the locked door. He has no doubts about what comes next, but he doesn’t want an audience either.

“Quite,” Connor agrees, watching Anderson’s profile with guarded eyes.

The silent seconds stretch until the tension between them threatens to snap under the enormity of their machinations. Anderson’s thumb moves in idle circles from Connor’s hip down to his inner thigh, much too high for propriety, too intimate for adversaries. Connor rolls into the touch. He’s tired of waiting. He wants Anderson to start _taking_.

“Patience,” Anderson rumbles, half commanding, half aroused.

Connor pivots to straddle him with lethal grace, “Fuck patience.”

He doesn’t give Anderson the chance to rebuke him. Swollen lips crash against Anderson’s in exquisite, agonizing perfection.

For the first time without worry or care, Connor kisses his lover like he means to drown in him.

It had taken more trust than Connor had been raised to believe possible to pull off the ruse. He knows Anderson’s intentions could turn out to be cruel. He could be leading Connor into a trap, but he doubts it.

He’s seen Hank Anderson naked. Connor’s heard him sing in the shower and whisper wicked things into his ear. He knows how Anderson takes his coffee and he knows his plans to reshape their broken city.

It had been Connor who suggested the alliance, but Anderson had made the first move. It was a small gesture by most standards. The gentle brush of one pinky against another as they reviewed plans. In their world, Anderson may as well had shouted his affection into a megaphone.

“Hank,” Connor groans out his name for the thousandth time but he’ll never grow tired of saying it. “Hank, please.”

Anderson growls against Connor’s throat, sucking a livid mark to life near his jaw. He wants everyone to know where Connor belongs. He wants to claim him, to devour him. He wants to give him the world on a silver fucking platter. The mouthy brat had wormed his way into Anderson’s carefully fortressed heart. There was no retreating after breaching those walls.

Connor arches up, seeking contact. His chest meets Anderson’s as his lungs heave with unmet need. Connor’s arms stretch just shy of painful as Anderson pins them in place behind his back with one large hand while the other fondles Connor through his slacks in slow, unhurried strokes. Connor writhes and undulates, demanding, begging for more. Anderson takes pains to leave hickeys and bruises in painfully embarrassing places. They need to maintain appearances, after all, of Anderson’s complete and total claim to the Stern legacy.

It will take the better part of another year before they can risk open affection. They need the world to believe that Hank Anderson had gripped the Stern Empire by the throat and choked it to its last standing bastion. That he not only took what was Connor’s but brought him to heel as well.

From the start, Anderson had thought Connor much too pretty to be allowed. A pity to kill him. He had no other reasonable excuse for continuing their verbal sparring matches when they made a show of spreading their influence in the clubs and bars in disputed territories.

He’d schemed several viable plans of removing the cheeky Stern kingpin, but he’d never quite been able to bring himself to execute them. Connor approaching him in a dark corner of a nightclub with tousled hair and yanking his tie free to expose a slice of pale collarbone had aroused him in ways Anderson hadn’t thought possible. Connor was haughty and cocksure. He was also tired of playing Amanda’s losing hand.

He’d sat himself on the cheap pleather seat that housed who knew how many secrets and STDs, steepling his fingers across the sticky table between them, “I wasn’t sure you’d show.”

Anderson gave him a polite inclination of his head, “When your greatest and nearest enemy calls you for a meeting at two in the morning on a fucking Wednesday, it tends to grab your attention.”

Now, staring down at Connor’s porcelain skin, running his fingers over hidden freckles, he’s glad he took the bait.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


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